


Three Days Underwater

by theteapirate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, Drugs, M/M, Manhandling, Shotgunning, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theteapirate/pseuds/theteapirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU based on the film Weekend, dir. Andrew Haigh. Harry, a lifeguard, meets Louis, an artist, expecting just another one night stand. Instead, they get something special and resonant, if only for the weekend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days Underwater

A blinding, shivering beam of sunlight singles Louis out as he fiddles confidently with the buttons on his tape recorder. He presses record and says  _go_ , quietly. Harry doesn’t hear him until Louis nudges his chest fondly with his chin, breathing deeply into Harry’s neck while he balances the recorder on Harry’s shoulder.   
  
“What do you even want me to talk about?” Harry asks, hair falling wildly around his face, some loose pieces still plastered to his forehead with sweat. His green eyes look too bright and clear for morning, his mouth too sweet, his smile lazy and cheeky as he stares down at Louis, who hides his face in Harry’s shoulder.   
  
He concentrates on the rise and fall of Harry’s bare chest, warm and tan and strong under his cheek while he thinks of an answer.   
  
A beat later, Louis replies, “The sex. Everything about it. Was it...like, was it what you were expecting? Did you want something more from it? Something less? What did you like, what did you not like, you know, et cetera.”   
  
“Are you sure this isn’t just your way of judging your performance?”  
  
Louis slaps Harry lightly on his bicep. “No. I know I’m a damn good fuck. Now go. And don’t think too hard about it, just start talking.”  
  
“I --” Harry furrows his eyebrows at Louis, staring helplessly into his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to do!”  
  
“Just talk. Go. Stop stalling.”  
  
“Alright...erm. It was...it was good?”  
  
“More details. If it makes you nervous, just tell it like a story.”  
  
Harry bites his lip, scrunching his fist in the sheets tightly.   
  
“Just tell me a fucking story, Harry.”  
  
“About the sex we had last night.”  
  
“Precisely, love.”  
  
Harry decides not to let his eye contact waver. Because if he has to feel this uncomfortable, Louis does too. But Louis doesn’t look even the slightest bit phased; he just props his chin on the most muscled curve of Harry’s chest and stares up at him. Harry takes a deep breath.  
  
“We started...in the kitchen, I think. Well technically I suppose we started in the club.”  
  
“And what did you think?”  
  
“What did I think when?” Harry breaks off.  
  
“When you saw me in the club,” Louis says quietly. Harry lifts a piece of Louis’s fringe, pinching the soft strands between his fingers, then smoothing it back over his forehead.  
  
“I thought...I dunno, you were sort of out of my league.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“Dunno, really. You just looked...really confident, and you were dancing with this other guy, and your back was all pressed against him so at first I didn’t even see what a fantastic bum you add but as soon as you turned around I thought, wow. Fuck it. I’m going for it.”  
  
“You tried to steal me away.”  
  
“I did, yeah. Had enough drinks in me.”  
  
“What else?”  
  
Harry stares at him, thoughtful. “I thought you had a pretty smile. And cute hair.” Harry runs his fingers through Louis’s hair again. “And I just...I dunno, I saw you and I wanted to get my fucking hands on you.”  
  
Harry suspects that Louis is blushing, but Louis firmly maintains their eye contact regardless. He weaves their fingers together. “What’d you think about me?” Harry asks.  
  
“I thought you were a horrible dancer,” Louis says cheekily. Harry pinches the skin between Louis’s fingers. “I thought you looked sexy. I liked your hair and your shoulders and the way your pants couldn’t quite accommodate your bulge.”  
  
“I liked the way you sort of made me chase you.”  
  
“I liked...aw, this is getting cheesy.”  
  
“Say it.”  
  
“I can’t, it’s ridiculous.”  
  
“Say it, Louis.”  
  
“I liked how...you didn’t give up. When I made you chase me. You were like some sort of puppy that wanted to follow me home.”  
  
Harry cants his head to the side. “So far...yours have all been much more insulting than mine.”  
  
“Well you’ve been lying on most of yours.”  
  
“I have not!” Harry protests.  
  
“‘Out of your league’?” Louis raises an eyebrow. “Really? You expect me to buy that? Look at you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Louis ducks his head, absent-mindedly drawing patterns on Harry’s chest. Harry admires the pink-gold flush of the sunlight on Louis’s tan skin, the way the light falls across his hair, lighting up his eyes. He runs a nail along the back of Louis’s ear.  
  
“When I saw you...” Harry starts huskily. “I thought you were exactly my type.”  
  
“And what’s that?”   
  
“Mmm...smaller than me. Sort of bold, and -- and confident and funny. Little feisty types,” Harry says with a wry grin, flicking Louis’s ear. “You.”  
  
“What did you want to do to me?”  
  
“Everything,” Harry says, a little breathlessly.   
  
“So start from the beginning. What did we do?”  
  
“Well we got back to my apartment, right? After I coaxed you away from that other guy. And I -- I don’t remember what came first. I might’ve lifted you onto the counter in my kitchen.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Did I bend you over it?”  
  
“No,” Louis mumbles in the skin beside Harry’s nipple. “You spread my legs, and sucked me off, and then --”  
  
“And then I fingered you open with your own come. And I carried you to my room, and my fingers were still in you. And you were whimpering into my shoulder to take them out because you wanted to come again but I told you to hold it. And I put you on your belly on the bed and my fingers were still in you, not even moving just filling you up, but I made sure to keep a steady pressure on your prostate, because it made you make this little noise, like a whine, like maybe you were going to cry. A good cry,” Harry says, and he’s surprised at himself, because his voice never wavers, and neither do his eyes. He tucks two fingers under Louis’s chin, forcing him to keep looking.   
  
“And then...I just wanted to kiss you. I kissed up and down your spine and over your arse until it was almost a rim job but I stopped, because you were begging so much at this point and trying to rut against the bed but I forced your hips still because I didn’t want you to come again just yet. So I finally replaced my fingers with my cock and fucked into you. I didn’t want to go too fast -- your sounds were pretty and I wanted to prolong it as much as I could. I pulled your hair and took long, deep strokes. And you finally did cry. You cried all over my pillow. And you begged me for permission to come but I wanted to feel you lose it at the same time as me so I dragged it out. And when we finally came together it was so fucking worth it.”  
  
Harry brushes Louis’s bottom lip with his thumb, fond. Louis smiles around his finger, as if his memories are lining up with Harry’s. “I think I’m starting to get hard again,” Louis whispers conspiratorially, and Harry laughs too loudly.   
  
“You looked so good all fucked out like that,” Harry says softly. “Your hair all disheveled and your cheeks were all flushed and sweaty and you fucking  _thanked_  me. For making it last. And I sucked you clean and you reciprocated and we fell asleep together and now we’re here, aren’t we?”  
  
But Louis isn’t thinking about right now, he’s thinking about the second day, or the third day that Harry could be inside him or Louis could be inside Harry or their mouths could press into each other’s skin or their fingers could pull at the crooks of each other’s elbows or the inside of their bottom lips or around the crinkles that lace around their eyes when they smile.   
  
It’s nothing Louis’s used to.   
  
“What were you doing yesterday?” Louis asks quietly, scooting further up Harry’s chest so his mouth aligns with the straining veins winding along Harry’s neck. His breath ghosts under his jaw. “At this exact moment, yesterday morning, what were you doing? What did it look like -- the day -- what did it taste like, feel like, what did you think was going to happen?”  
  
Harry skates his fingers along the smooth, bare planes of Louis’s shoulder blades. “I was in the bathtub. I was wanking. And you’re going to ask me what I was thinking about so I’ll go ahead and say it: I was thinking about this guy I met the night before but didn’t fuck because he had a boyfriend.”  
  
“That doesn’t always stop people,” Louis says softly. Harry can’t tell if it’s sad or not. His fingers slow down.  
  
“Well it stopped him. He was dancing on me like he wanted me to take him home, but he ended it before I could. Sort of a dick move, to be honest. Anyways, he was hot and I wanted it.”  
  
“What was the temperature of your bath?”  
  
“Very hot, like scalding.”  
  
Louis’s teeth flash in a brief, dirty grin. “And what does spunk look like when it floats?”  
  
Harry’s mouth twitches, amused. “Like strings of conditioner. It just...well, you know, it doesn’t smell as nice.”  
  
“I wouldn’t know what conditioner looks like because my hair is naturally soft,” Louis says cheekily, with a smug, teasing little grin. Harry tugs at the hair spilling over the edge of Louis’s ear.   
  
“Wanker,” he whispers.  
  
They’re quiet for a moment. Harry pulls Louis even further up the bed, so his mouth can skim little kisses across the obscene curve of his cheekbone. He brushes his lips along the corner of Louis’s mouth and whispers, “Would you like some tea?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
“And what about breakfast?”  
  
Louis bares his neck while Harry’s mouth inches down over his chin, over his adam’s apple, down his throat. “Do you cook?”  
  
Harry feels him swallow.   
  
“Yeah. I can make whatever you want.”  
  
“Is that cocky or chivalrous?”  
  
Harry hums into Louis shoulder, settling. “Dunno. Guess a bit of both, really. I could make us eggs on toast? Or pancakes or something?”  
  
“Can you make french toast?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“I’ll have that, then,” Louis says, rolling off of Harry onto his back, folding his arms behind his head. “Well go on.”  
  
“Bossy,” Harry mumbles, but he wanders off on the kitchen to make their breakfast. He presents it to Louis with syrup drizzled neatly on top, plus a dusting of powdered sugar and strawberries on the side.   
  
“Trying to impress me or something?” Louis says, propping himself against the headboard so he can put the plate in his lap.  
  
“No. I just thought it’d be nice,” Harry says honestly. Louis watches Harry eat for a moment, saying nothing. Finally, Louis starts eating his, and it tastes incredible, but he remains quiet.  
  
Harry looks up, thumbing off a bit of sugar at the corner of Louis’s mouth. “Do you want anything else?” he asks, looking open and vulnerable. Louis has to look away. “I’ve got uh...like juice and stuff. And I could make bacon or something if you like...”  
  
“No, Harry, it’s perfect,” Louis says, and it feels weird to him, absent of any teasing of cheekiness, to just say a compliment like that with total sincerity. But the way Harry’s face lights up is worth it.   
  
“Thanks,” he says happily. “My mum used to make these when I was little. I made her teach me when I left home.”  
  
It’s such a cute thing to say, so young and honest and sweet and Louis suddenly feels an itch of discomfort, feeling dirty and out of place. He glances around Harry’s bedroom - there’s a framed  _Abbey Road_  album and a collection of family pictures -- baby Harry with his mum, toddler Harry with a girl who’s presumably his sister, present-day Harry with a group of boys -- his friends -- shirtless on the beach. His walls are blue-grey and his closet is organized. His come-stained sheets are the only messy thing in the room, besides Louis.   
  
“What is it?” Harry asks.  
  
“Nothing. I was just wondering...”  
  
“Wondering what?"  
  
“Hold on, I’m going to turn the recorder back on, if that’s alright.” Louis fumbles under the sheets for the recorder, flicking it on. “Okay...how many boyfriends have you had, Harry...erm, what’s your last name?”  
  
“Harry Styles,” he mumbles.  
  
“Harry Styles. What a name. You could be a porn star, with that name. Anywho, Harry Styles, how many boyfriends have you had?”  
  
“Um...two.”  
  
“Okay. And what were the names of these lucky lads?”  
  
“Well seeing as how you still haven’t told me what this is for, I’d rather not say.”  
  
“Hm. Fine then. How long were you togethe  
  
“Three months, for the first one, like 8 for the second.”  
  
“And girlfriends?”  
  
“Three.”  
  
“How long were those for?”  
  
“Erm...6 weeks? I was like 12,” he adds, when Louis raises his eyebrows. “And uh...like two months, I think, for this girl I dated when I was like 15 or so. And then I dated Emily for two and a half years.”  
  
Louis sets his plate aside on Harry’s bed, which Harry quickly takes and puts on his nightstand.   
  
“Are you bisexual?” He asks.  
  
“I dunno,” Harry shrugs.   
  
“Well, do you like boys and girls?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Then you’re bisexual.”  
  
“Okay, but...it’s not like I even think about gender that much. I just...like who I like.”  
  
“Well aren’t you progressive?” Louis asks, and it comes out more sneering than he intends. Harry blinks at him.   
  
“So what, you’re pan or something?”  
  
Harry just shrugs. “I guess. Do I have to call it something?”  
  
“Well, no, but--”  
  
“What about you?” Harry interrupts. “What do you call yourself?”  
  
“I call myself gay.”  
  
“And are you out?”  
  
“Quite. You?”  
  
“I guess. If someone asks, I’m honest. I don’t like to lie about it.”  
  
Louis nods. “I’ve never really had a choice. Seems I’ve always been out rather I really intended to be or not. I had this boyfriend in school...he was a huge prick, literally and figuratively, and he told everyone what I was like in bed. Then he cheated on me, and then he dumped me. And the world made it up to me by calling me names around every corner-- real creative stuff, “cocksucker” and the like -- and sometimes people took it farther than that. That’s how God paid me back.” He eyes the tiny silver cross tangling between the clean, twin knobs of Harry’s collarbones. Harry makes no move to defend it, or to hide it, he just swallows Louis’s hands between his and kisses the knuckle of his thumb. They face each other, cross-legged on Louis’s bed, knees brushing innocently.   
  
“Oops,” Louis says hoarsely, voice raw with vulnerability, feeling bare and laid-open. “I didn’t realize I was still recording.”   
  
He fumbles with the recorder until the glowing red light turns off. He clears his throat and says, “Well I’ve got work. So I should probably, you know--”  
  
Harry nods, handing Louis his clothing from the night before, which Harry had folded and placed neatly on his dresser. Louis doesn’t comment on it, a strange feeling rattling inside his ribs. He dresses himself and Harry walks him to the door, smoothing Louis’s hair before pecking him on the cheek.   
  
Harry’s hallway is blessedly dark, hiding Louis’s blush.   
  
“Where do you work?” Harry asks.   
  
“An art gallery.”  
  
“Oh. Is the recording related to that?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ll uh...I’ll tell you about it. You know, later.”  
  
Harry’s eyes light up, his smile sparkling, even in his windowless hallway. “You’ll call me later?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve got your number, don’t I? Besides, you were a good shag,” Louis says dismissively, squeezing Harry’s hand when his face falls, barely noticeable. “Well, I’ll see you then.”  
  
Harry nods a bit dazedly, watching the sway of Louis’s arse as he walks to the elevator. He doesn’t close his door until the elevator pings shut. 

-

Louis doesn’t think about Harry all day, except for when he sees a little charm of a cross dangling off his co-worker’s bracelet or when he hears his friend’s “Here Comes the Sun” ringtone or when he eats his sub-par lunch and thinks of the far superior meal he had for breakfast or when he sees a little green-eyed girl wandering around the gallery, escaping the clinging fingers of her mother and thinks,  _I’ve seen greener._  
  
So he thinks about him all day.  
  
By dinner time, he’s given up, sending Harry a quick text inviting him for drinks at his flat that night.   
  
Harry shows up exactly on time, and in this sober light he’s even greener and prettier and making Louis’s stomach twist into knots.   
  
“Hello, love,” he says brightly, inviting him inside, savoring the brief moment where Harry looms over him in the narrow hallway when he passes Louis into the living room.   
  
“So this is home,” he says, wiling the nervous twitch out of his voice. “Er, sorry it’s so messy. I tried cleaning it up a bit but I’m not a very talented cleaner I’m afraid. Nor am I fancy cook so don’t expect anything like that. I was thinking Chinese takeout, if you’re up for it? Or we could go out. I don’t mind. How was work? Do you even work? I forgot to ask.”  
  
Harry sprawls out on Louis’s couch, his mouth curling into a slow, amused smile. “I'm a lifeguard.”  
  
“Oh.” Louis sits down next to him, wanting to slide onto his lap but wondering if it’s too forward. He settles for aligning his thigh with Harry’s, and throwing an arm around his shoulders. “So have you ever saved someone’s life?”  
  
Harry nods. “Yeah, this little boy. His mum went to the bathroom and he tried to dive in. It was a perfect dive, but once he was in he didn’t know what to do. I had to get him, give him CPR, the whole thing. His mum was crying all over me.”  
  
“Harry Styles, my hero,” Louis swoons, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. Harry slaps his cheek, lightly.   
  
“You never told me your last name.”  
  
“It’s Tomlinson. Tomlinson -- Louis Tomlinson,” he says, mimicking James Bond. “I’m starving, so I’m going to order the food. What would you like, Superman?”  
  
“Superman? I think I’m more of a Batman.”  
  
Louis scoffs. “Please. You’re not brooding enough.”  
  
“You obliviously haven’t spent enough time with me, then.”  
  
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Louis says airily, crossing into the kitchen to grab his phone. Harry follows him, cornering him against the counter.   
  
Louis feels the air whoosh out of him when Harry’s breath creeps down his neck, under the collar of his shirt as he leans in close to his ear. “But if I’m not Batman,” he says lowly, dragging his nail behind Louis’s ear, making him shiver, “then how can you be my Robin?”  
  
Louis pushes him away, fighting away the arousal in his belly with a laugh. “That might be the cheesiest pick up line I’ve ever heard. You should submit that to a contest.”  
  
“But I’ve already picked you up, haven’t I?” Harry says, eyes dark, crowding against Louis again. “Or do you not fuck on the second date?”  
  
“I fucked on the first, didn’t I?” Louis says with a little gasp when Harry’s hips brush against his. “But that wasn’t a date, that was a one night stand, that somehow became a two-night stand because apparently you’re some kind of gay wizard. I suspect it’s the curls. They’ve seduced me against my will.”  
  
“You’re adorable,” Harry says into Louis’s mouth, cupping his face and kissing him, gentle and slow until Louis can feel his knees beginning to buckle, and he grabs onto the counter behind him for support.  
  
“I need to order food.”  
  
Harry breaks away. “Fine,” he says, with a huge, giddy smile that Louis has to fight to tear his eyes away from. Louis calls the restaurant, his fingers shaking a little on the keys, feeling Harry’s hot stare burning against his cheek.  
  
“What do you want, Curly?” he asks.  
  
“Uh...orange chicken, please.”  
  
Louis orders the same for himself. When the food arrives, they sit on Louis’s balcony to watch the sunset while they eat. It gets a little chilly, so Harry gives Louis his jumper to wear, despite Louis’s protests that he’s got plenty of coats and blankets inside.  
  
“No, don’t. I like the way it looks on you,” Harry says fondly. He licks his lips, enjoying the way the sleeves of his jumper fall over Louis’s hands, and the oversized collar exposes his collarbones.   
  
“But aren’t you cold?”   
  
“No, I’m like naturally warm, or something,” Harry says, still staring at Louis without a trace of subtlety.   
  
“Wanker,” Louis whispers under his breath, but he’s smiling and Harry reaches over to knock a piece of chicken out of his hand, laughing mischievously.  
  
“The funny thing about that is you’ll pick that up later, because you’re a neat freak,” Louis teases. Harry’s eyes flicker down to his mouth, wiping away a bit of sauce from the corner of Louis’s mouth and licking it off.  
  
“Gross.”  
  
Harry shrugs, beaming, and finishes off the rest of his food. He pulls a small red-orange bowl out of his pocket and sets it on Louis’s knee, who just stares at it, quirking an eyebrow. Harry then fishes out a tiny plastic bag filled with weed.   
  
He swings it in front of Louis’s face. “You want?”  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
Harry packs it carefully, picking the stems out onto the little side table. He digs his lighter out of his pants and holds the bowl to Louis’s lips.   
  
“Put your finger here, love,” Harry instructs softly, holding Louis’s hand unnecessarily until he finds it. He lights it and tells Louis quietly to  _pull slowly, slowly, until it almost hurts_  and Louis starts coughing so he finally pulls the flame away, grinning a little as Louis’s eyes well with tears and his cheeks fill up with blood.  
  
“Here, babe.” Harry hands Louis a water bottle, which he gulps down gratefully. Harry tries not to watch the rhythmic bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, instead focusing on taking his own hit. He feels Louis’s eyes on him as he sucks in, slowly, the smoke finally billowing out of his nose and mouth in white swirls, smooth and thick.  
  
“You want another?”   
  
“In a second,” Louis answers, his voice choked. He curls up in Harry’s little wicker chair, and Harry remembers why he first noticed him in the first place,  _small_  and  _pretty_  and --  
  
“Here, try this,” Harry suggests quickly, dragging his chair closer to Louis’s. He lights up the bowl and takes in a mouthful of smoke, then hooks two fingers beneath Louis’s chin and pulls his mouth to his, tapping his bottom lip once. Louis’s mouth falls open on command, and the smoke spills sinfully into his mouth, licking at his insides. Harry kisses his mouth closed, then drags his thumb over Louis’s bottom lip when it’s time to exhale.   
  
“Was that nicer for your throat?”   
  
Louis responds by climbing over his chair and into Harry’s lap. Harry sees a flash of sharp, white teeth and glittering blue eyes, a spike of sunlight disappearing behind the feathery crown of Louis’s hair before his mouth is covered by warm, warm lips, smoky and bitter-sweet.   
  
“Give me one more,” Louis whispers into the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry lights it again, holding the bowl to Louis, watching dazedly at his eyes flutter closed, eyelashes sweeping against his cheeks. Harry takes his own hit afterwards, feeling loose and heavy. Louis slumps into his lap, and Harry registers broken pieces of his limbs one by one: the fluttering muscles in his thighs, hitching around Harry’s waist; the firm, glorious press of his arse against Harry’s crotch; his arms, smooth-skinned and golden and strong looped around Harry’s shoulders; his fingers at the nape of his neck; his breath on Harry’s cheek.   
  
Harry pushes his fingers against Louis’s ribcage, feels him inhale and exhale slowly. He bites at Louis’s shoulder, almost distractedly, and listens to Louis’s quiet, uneven breaths. He pushes Louis off his chest and holds him rigidly upright on his lap, staring meaningfully into his eyes.   
  
“Are you there yet?”   
  
The red rim makes Louis’s eyes look even more impossibly blue. Harry laughs when Louis merely nods in response, smiling lazily, eyes crinkling in the corners. He turns Louis so they’re facing the same direction, and he moves pliantly, docile and sleepy in Harry’s lap.   
  
“Are you going to say something philosophical about sunsets now?” Louis asks. “Have we arrived at that part of the script?”  
  
Harry laughs against Louis’s neck, low and rumbling. Louis feels it in his belly. He pulls Harry’s arms around him, squeezing Harry’s wrists.   
  
“Fine, then. I’ll start. I just think it’s funny how...how people obey sunsets like law. And sunrises. We sleep when the sun sleeps. We rise when the sun rises.”  
  
“Not me,” Harry says, with another low laugh. Louis squeezes harder.  
  
“No, but you know what I’m talking about, yeah? You at least understand that you’re  _expected_  to go to bed after sunset and wake up at sunrise. And if you don’t, you’ve slept  _late_ , or you’ve stayed up  _late_ , or something else that’s taken to mean you’ve done something  _abnormally_.”  
  
“Lou...I don’t think it’s quite as deep as that,” Harry says lazily.   
  
“It is though! It’s all about expectations. Everything is. Your sexuality, for example--”  
  
“Are you really going to turn what could be a very pleasant rumination on the beauty of sunsets into a lecture on homosexuality?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Whatever happened to weed makes you mellow?”  
  
“See? That’s just another expectation, isn’t it?”  
  
“Oh, Louis--  
  
“Look, I want to talk about this.”  
  
“Look, I don’t. I want to sit here with someone beautiful and look at something beautiful and maybe just be quiet about it. Is that alright?”  
  
Louis squirms in his lap, sighing heavily. Harry buries his face in Louis’s soft hair, breathing in deeply, and folds their hands together. He traces his thumb over Louis’s knuckles, gentle and comforting until he can physically feel Louis’s body soften, docile in his arms.   
  
“I don’t think I’m very good at being mellow, Harry.”  
  
Harry sighs. “But this is so comfortable,” he says. “Look -- look at the sky. You’re an artist, aren’t you? It’s beautiful out here. I mean, I've always wanted a flat like this -- you've got the perfect view. It's all I want. To find a soft, warm boy to hold on a balcony and watch the sunset.”  
  
“In silence.”  
  
“Silence can be very lovely, Louis.”  
  
Louis makes a noise of disagreement, slumping lower on Harry’s lap.  
  
“Alright, then. If it was up to you, what you be doing? What’s a regular night for Louis Tomlinson?”   
  
“I dunno. Meet my friends for a drink. Maybe go for dinner. Then I’ll go to a club and find someone to fuck.”  
  
“So not smoking alone in your flat, then.”  
  
“No, that’s not quite my style.”  
  
Harry reaches around Louis’s face, and feels him smile against his thumb.   
  
“But...” Louis says softly. “I can see why you like this. But I think I like people too much to really enjoy it. Or maybe it’s that I like hating them too much.”  
  
“Or that you hate liking them.”  
  
Louis stills in Harry’s lap. “No. No, I don’t think that’s it.”  
  
Harry shrugs, pulling Louis’s jaw towards him so he can land a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Louis swings his legs around so he’s sitting sideways on Harry’s lap, curling one arm around Harry’s shoulders and kissing him deeply. Their tongues tangle together, languid and hot, tasting the sick-sweet-smoky weed lingering in the backs of each other’s throats. Louis holds his mouth against Harry’s, feeling the soft, plush flesh give under the pressure of his lips, playing lazily with the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. He presses one last, lingering kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth, then the tip of his nose, the apples of his cheeks. He rests his forehead against Harry’s to catch his breath.  
  
“I’ve got an idea I think you’ll like, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry whispers.  
  
Louis leans back an inch to stare into Harry’s eyes. “Oh? And what’s that?”  
  
Harry smiles, eyelashes brushing against Louis’s cheeks. His eyes flicker down to Louis’s mouth.   
  
“Can you swim?”  
  
\--  
  
Harry holds his hand over Louis’s eyes as he crowds behind him, turning the key in the lock and pushing open the door. He gently guides Louis inside, and he can smell the chlorine before Harry removes his hand from his eyes.  
  
“Are we allowed to be here?” Louis whispers.  
  
“Not really,” Harry responds, in his normal voice, and it echoes dramatically throughout the indoor pool. He flicks on a light switch, and the pool is suddenly glowing green with lights, the surface still and unbroken until Harry dips his foot in, water lapping against the edges.  
  
Before Louis can blink, Harry is completely naked and running towards the water, folding his body into a cannonball a split second before he lands. The water shoots up around him in a spiraling wave, crashing over the sides and splashing onto Louis, who springs backwards on the tile with a cry of outrage.  
  
“You did that on purpose!” Louis shouts when Harry finally emerges from the water, beaming wildly, hair clinging to his face in slick curls. He flicks his bangs to the side and splashes Louis with a cackle.   
  
“You’re such a fucking twat. And you look like baby Tarzan,” Louis spits.   
  
“Oooooh, zinger,” Harry teases cheekily, splashing Louis again.   
  
“That’s it,” Louis says, and he flings off his half-wet clothes and dives in messily, waves rising around him as he disappears under the water to catch Harry around the ankles, dragging him under.   
  
It seems impossible, but Harry can even laugh under water. He squirms out of Louis’s grip with little effort and pulls Louis up by his under arms, pulling him in by the back of his neck once they’re at eye level to yank their mouths together. Louis wriggles out of Harry’s grip and shoots to the surface, gasping for breath. Harry follows him, crowding him against the edge of the pool, bracketing Louis against the walls with his arms.  
  
Louis’s head surges forward, pressing his mouth against Harry’s. Harry holds him by the neck, thumb dragging over Louis’s racing pulse, and squeezes, slowing him down. He wants to take his time. He simply holds himself against Louis, feeling the cold, wet press of his mouth, kissing the chlorine off his lips. He pulls away with a lazy grin, watching the light ripple across Louis’s face, their sounds amplified by the echoing of the pool. Louis looks dangerously pretty, almost ethereal, eyelashes made dark and spiky by the water, eyes red-rimmed and electric-blue, glittering from the lights below. His lips are dark and glistening, skin slick and clear and Harry can’t help but drag his wrinkled fingertips over the sharp curve of Louis’s cheekbone, following his fingers with his mouth.   
  
Suddenly, Louis slips under the water, swimming under Harry’s feet and sinking towards the bottom. Harry waits for him to rise, but seconds pass, then more seconds, and finally Harry dives to the bottom to collect him, pressing his entire body against Louis’s back and sliding his arm under his chest. He drags Louis back to the surface, who splutters dramatically before his lips spread into a slow, mischievous smile under Harry’s dark gaze. “Just wanted to make sure you’d save me,” he says cheekily, and Harry lightly slaps his cheek to reprimand him.  
  
“Do you hit all the people you rescue or is that reserved exclusively for me?”  
  
“It’s just you,” Harry says drily, pushing down on Louis’s shoulders until he’s forced back under the water. He follows immediately after, maneuvering himself until Louis’s legs are linked over his shoulders. He rises back to the surface with Louis balancing precariously on his shoulders, holding onto to Harry’s head for balance.  
  
Harry bites on the inside of his thigh with a giggle, taking Louis further and further into the shallow end until Louis’s entire weight is on his shoulders.   
  
“Strong Harry,” he hears Louis tease above him, and he leans back ever-so-slightly until Louis topples backwards into the water with a cry of outrage. Harry cackles, picking him back up and setting him on the side of the pool like a child, then wriggling in between his spread legs.   
  
Harry might be one of the most beautiful people Louis’s ever seen -- little drops of water glittering in his eyelashes like sequins, green eyes glowing even brighter than the pool, rivulets of water racing down the long, ropey lines of his muscles, rippling under his clear, tan skin. His curls cling to his forehead in a dark mop, and it should look ridiculous, but on Harry it’s beautiful, like everything else.   
  
They both stare at Louis’s cock, half-hard despite the cool temperature of the water. “Someone likes to be manhandled, clearly,” Harry remarks, and Louis responds by pushing Harry’s head closer to his cock until his tongue darts out to taste, teasing. Louis pushes harder, and Harry’s nails sink into his thighs as he complies, and Louis hisses in a dual sensation of pain and pleasure as Harry sinks his mouth on his cock. It’s a curious feeling, because his lips are cold but the inside of his mouth feels burning hot, and shivers rise on his skin as his body reacts to the cold air outside of the water. Harry drags his tongue along the underside of his cock, staring up at Louis hotly, eyes dark, and Louis’s eyes flicker down to watch his dick disappear behind Harry’s impossibly red lips, swollen from kisses and the stretch of Louis’s cock. His lips trail downwards, taking in just the head, and he presses his tongue roughly against a spot beneath the head and Louis explodes, come spurting over Harry’s lips and landing in his mouth.  
  
Louis falls weak and boneless, crumpling against the side of the pool, and Harry pushes himself out of the pool to crawl over his body, kissing him deeply and rubbing his erection against Louis’s quivering belly. Louis stares up at him, cheeks flushed, shivering as Harry pulls his legs apart to slide between him, collecting the rest of his come off his cock to slick his fingers. He pushes in two at once, cooing pretty encouragements against Louis’s ear until he feels ready to feed him a third.   
  
He soon replaces his fingers with his cock, feeling the sweet sensation of Louis’s body weakly resisting him before finally yielding, and he slides inside with a groan, rumbling low against the corner of Louis’s mouth. He kisses him softly, aimlessly as he fucks into him, and Louis’s whimpers slowly dissolve into moans as Harry repeatedly lands against his prostate, and his cock fills with blood again against his will. Harry covers his body completely, stretching Louis’s arms above his head and keeping a stronghold on his wrists, whispering filth against his neck until Louis painfully ekes out a second orgasm, whining  _please, please, please_  under his breath, sounding absolutely wrecked.  
  
Harry stares into his eyes when he finally comes, forcing Louis to watch as his fingers come up wet, holding them against Louis’s mouth until he accepts him submissively, eyes closed with tears glittering at the corners, cheeks flushed bright red, lips swollen bruise-purple from his own teeth. Harry presses his fingers against the bob of Louis’s adam’s apple when he swallows, smiling proudly.   
  
“You’re so good, Lou,” he whispers, gently kissing over his closed eyelids and his forehead. He gathers up his naked body and carries him to a nearby bench, dressing both himself and Louis.   
  
He decides to take them back to his flat, just for the sake of convenience. He helps Louis into the shower when they get home, because they’re both freezing and they reek of sex and chlorine. He gently washes Louis’s hair and his back, fingering the tiny bruises blooming on his hips and his legs and his throat, admiring the little marks his nails have made on the inside of Louis’s thighs. He looks like  _Harry’s_ , owned and loved and perfect. Harry kisses the marks on Louis’s wrists when he folds him up in a giant towel, pushing him on the bed while he finds Louis a pair of sweat pants to borrow. Louis practically swims in them, they’re so huge, and Harry can’t help but think it’s one of the cutest things he’s ever seen.   
  
He makes them both hot chocolate and they curl up in bed. Louis falls asleep on his shoulder before his mug is even half-finished, and Harry takes it from him gently and watches television alone, kissing the top of Louis’s head every so often, as if to remind himself he’s there. Kissing Louis is like pinching himself, like Harry’s assuring himself he won’t take Louis for granted, because if Harry’s being honest with himself, Louis is the best he’s ever had, and he wants to make the most of him while he lasts.

-

“I know you’ve seen a lot of me lately,” Harry says, sliding a plate heaping with eggs and bacon in front of Louis. “But what are you doing tonight?”  
  
It’s late morning. Louis is suddenly hit with a wet spray of sunlight, dappled in gold, and he has to squint to look into Harry’s eyes. Looking at Harry is almost like looking directly into the sun anyways -- and really, it should be illegal for anyone to look that good first thing after waking up. He’s all soft bed head and red lips and liquid-green eyes, his dark fan of eyelashes fluttering as he stares at Louis, transfixed.  
  
Louis licks his lips, discomfort squirming in his belly. “Well, see, here’s the thing,” Louis says hesitantly. “I’m sort of...I’m sort of leaving tomorrow.”  
  
Harry’s head cants to the side, curls slipping onto his shoulder. Louis averts his eyes. He hurts to look at. “What d’you mean?”  
  
“I’ve got this uh...program I’m doing?” He says it like a question. “It’s in America. In New York. I got a grant to work at this art school there. It’s a really good opportunity,” he adds, as if he’s pitching the idea to Harry, seeking his approval even though Harry is technically nothing to him but a boy he’s repeatedly made love to over the past two days.   
  
“That’s...that’s great, Louis.” But Harry is a bad actor, he always has been and so he can’t hide the hurt that runs shallow beneath his fake congratulations. Louis flinches, staring down at his hands.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Louis says quietly. He doesn’t mean to say it -- the words trip over his tongue before his brain can catch up with them.  
  
Harry looks up at him sharply. “For what?”   
  
Louis wishes his eyes were less green. “I don’t -- I don’t know. I don’t know why I said that.”  
  
Harry continues to stare at him, disappointed.   
  
“Look...my mates are having a sort of going-away thing for me tonight. At the club. You know, the club where we met.” He says this last part quietly. “Anyways, you should come. Please. It’d mean a lot to me. And my mates really want to meet you.”  
  
“You told your mates about me?” Harry asks weakly. Louis just nods. “What time?”  
  
“Should start around 8 I think?”  
  
“Yeah, alright,” Harry mumbles, shoveling eggs into his mouth so he has an excuse not to speak any further on the subject, watching Louis from the end of his fork.   
  
He shows up at the club at 9, hoping his clothes are right, shouldering his way over the bar and avoiding eye contact with everyone. He orders himself a JD and coke, nurturing it with an antisocial hunch to his shoulders, waiting for Louis to approach him. He spots him in the center of a circle of friends, laughing wildly, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes Harry’s heart race. He stares until Louis notices him, eyebrows raising in surprise, and Harry watches him mouth apologizes to his friends before wrestling his way out of the circle and over to Harry.  
  
He presses a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek, smiling at him a bit nervously. “You...you came.”  
  
“You sound surprised.”  
  
“I didn’t think you would. You seemed...a bit upset, this morning,” Louis says, searching Harry’s eyes. Harry maintains eye contact for a second before collapsing, sighing into his drink.   
  
“Yeah well...it was unexpected, Louis. That’s all.”  
  
“Will you miss me?” Louis asks, smiling goofily like it’s a joke, but the stare Harry returns is dark and serious over the rim of his glass.   
  
The smile falls briefly before returning with brave gusto. “Can I introduce you to my friends?” He asks, almost like he’s begging.   
  
Harry nods, and Louis drags him over to the circle. “Everybody, this is Harry. Harry, this is Liam, Zayn, Niall, Danielle, Eleanor, and Stan. Everyone be nice and say hi to Harry.”  
  
“Hi, Harry,” they chorus. Harry smiles charmingly and nods, arm tight around Louis’s waist.   
  
The one called Zayn beams at him, and Harry finds himself nearly blinded by how attractive he is -- skin like caramel, a dark sweep of eyelashes framing big, hazel eyes, a perfectly-styled black quiff, and a dazzling white smile. Zayn hooks Harry by the elbow, dragging him away from Louis to a private booth.   
  
“So, Harry. Louis’s told me all about you,” Zayn grins, wiggling his eyebrows.   
  
Harry smiles. “Well that’s impossible because he doesn’t even know much about me. I’ve only known him for two days.”  
  
“What?” Zayn furrows his eyebrows. “You’re fucking with me. We all thought--”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I dunno...we all just assumed you and Louis were properly dating. We were all fucking  _delighted_. Louis doesn’t date, you know. Ever. Too much of a slag for that--”  
  
“Hey now--”  
  
“Oh, come on -- look, I don’t mean it in a bad way. He’s had a bit of a rough time, you know? Had some really nasty boyfriends. But the way he talked about you -- well, you sound like a right prince, mate. And we just thought...you know, he’d been waiting to tell us, like that’s why we’d only just heard about you, because he was waiting to make sure  you were right and everything.”  
  
Harry swallows, his eyes subconsciously finding Louis across the bar. His friend Niall is draped over his back, and Louis’s smile is bright and crinkly-eyed and Harry can see how blue his eyes are even from over here. He looks beautiful. Harry looks away.  
  
“So you’ve only actually known him for two days?”  
  
Harry zones back in. Zayn is staring at him expectantly.  
  
“Uh...yeah. I mean, we’ve spent a lot of time together. But it’s only been the weekend, really.”  
  
“He must really like you then.”  
  
Harry's heart stutters. “Why’s that?” He asks, throat dry.  
  
“Well, for one, Louis never spends more than the night. And two, he’s dragged you here to meet us, didn’t he? We never get to meet any of Louis’s boys.”  
  
Harry’s cheeks flush at the thought of being known as one of “Louis’s boys.”   
  
“You didn’t think it was weird, then, that he waited to tell you about me until right before he left?”   
  
Zayn stares at him, eyes searching Harry’s seriously, before finally replying, “Look, mate. Here’s something you should know about Louis. Boy’s so passionate about his art and everything but he’s a fucking flake. I’m telling you. He won’t go. He’ll wake up tomorrow all full of doubt and then fall right back asleep and miss his flight. I’m telling you. He isn’t going to the fucking States. There’s no way.”  
  
Harry licks his lip, eyes searching for Louis again and this time, Louis’s already staring back at him, looking achingly pretty with his cheeks flushed pink with alcohol and his jumper falling sweetly off his shoulder. Harry wants to kiss him all over, wants to say nice things about him, wants to both shut Zayn up and make him keep talking, because yes, he wants Louis to succeed, of course, but there’s also a large part of him that’s dying for Zayn to be right. He wants Louis to stay. He wants more nights making Louis weak with his mouth, more nights sneaking into the pool, more nights skinny dipping with a pretty blue-eyed boy, more nights making that boy fall to pieces, more nights with the weight of Louis’s sleepy head on his shoulder, more mornings staring at Louis across the breakfast table, more weekends falling in love.  
  
Suddenly Louis is standing at the hand of the table, too-bright and too-warm and too-soft, leaning into Harry’s side. “What lies is he telling you?” He asks, giggling into Harry’s shoulder.  
  
Harry feels hot all over. Zayn watches them, eyes dark as brings his beer bottle to his lips, and slips out of the booth, squeezing Louis’s shoulder before leaving them alone. Harry breathes hot against Louis’s cheek, pulling him into his lap.  
  
“How drunk are you, baby?” Harry asks.   
  
“I’m okay,” Louis says, his hands on Harry’s shoulders and his mouth nestled beneath his ear, tickling the hairs that curl at his jaw. Louis’s lips brush over Harry’s neck.  
  
“Will you take me home? I’m tired of my friends. They make me sad,” Louis mumbles, and Harry nods, setting Louis on his feet and curling his arm protectively around his waist.  
  
“Your’s or mine?”  
  
“We have to go to mine,” Louis says, watching the bob of Harry’s adam’s apple as he finishes his drink. “I’ve got all my bags there.”  
  
“So you’ve...you’ve packed and everything?”  
  
Louis furrows his eyebrows like Harry’s stupid. “Well of course I have. My flight’s at like 9 in the morning! And I’ll be gone for at least a year.”  
  
“A...a year?”  
  
Harry wishes he were a better actor. He knows Louis can see how heartbroken he is -- it’s written all over his stupid face. He wriggles his arm down to squeeze Harry’s hand and tucks his face into Harry’s ear.  
  
“Come on, love. Let’s go home,” he says softly. Harry can only nod. He reluctantly lets go of Louis so he can say goodbye to his friends. None of them cry; they wink at Harry over his shoulder and Harry smiles weakly back, not knowing whether to feel anger at their disloyalty or hope that they’re right.   
  
Louis brings him a glass of wine once he’s settled on his couch. It’s cheap-tasting but good enough, and Louis sits down beside him, thighs touching, sipping from his own glass.   
  
“So...the recording project thing. You never told me what that was for.”  
  
“Oh, right!” Louis says, voice going a bit raspy like it always does when he’s been drinking. He slings his legs over Harry’s lap. “So...I started noticing this trend with my gay friends where they were, you know, out of the closet and comfortable with their sexuality and everything but for some reason they just could not talk about sex. It was like it embarrassed them. And with my straight friends they’d be so fucking  _graphic_  all the time, yeah, sharing every little detail, but my gay friends were never like that. Even the ones that fucked around as much as me. So I started asking them about it, forcing them to open up about the sex they were having. It became a kind of habit, and then I got the idea to record it, force them to listen to it, so they could get used to hearing people talk about gay sex. And then I wanted to make other people listen, straight people, bisexual people, boys, girls, everyone -- I wanted everyone to hear what a gay man or woman sounded like when they talked about gay sex. I wanted it to be something  _normal_  to hear, something that didn’t make people feel weird or ashamed. And then after every one of my own fucks, I just started recording them, trying to get people to open up.”  
  
He throws back more wine and Harry stares at him fondly, stroking Louis’s cheek. “That’s...that’s really amazing, Louis.”  
  
Louis blushes a little, hiding it behind his glass. “Thanks...I mean...it’s nothing, like, revolutionary or anything. I just -- sex shouldn’t be something people are ashamed of, you know? And like...the way you talked about it in your recording. You were so  _honest_ , like you said things so unflinchingly, things that most people would brush off with a laugh, but you wanted to tell me every little detail, little things that most people don’t care about, but they mattered to you. You talked about me. You didn’t talk about the way I made you feel, you just talked about me. How I looked, what you wanted to do to me, all the attention you paid me. I don’t think you understand how rare that is.”   
  
Louis doesn’t think he’s ever talked to anybody so honestly, clean of self-consciousness or dismissive teasing or fake carelessness. Something about Harry’s sincerity makes him want to give Harry the same treatment.   
  
Everything about Harry is unabashed -- the cross glinting between the twin clean knobs of his collarbones, the wet sincerity in his eyes, the adoring smile on his lips. Louis ducks his face down to kiss him, kiss him swollen and bruised, kiss him until they’re naked and bared-open for each other, kiss him until his lips learn to miss him when he’s left, aching and wistful.   
  
Harry tugs him fully onto his lap, stripping Louis slowly and never letting their mouths stray too far from each other. Louis sinks down to his knees, pressing featherlight kisses down Harry’s torso, reverent and sweet until he reaches his cock, and his mouth becomes worshipful. He kisses the tip of Harry’s cock, staring up at him with big, blue eyes and Harry smiles shakily, petting Louis’s hair until he’s ready to take in more.   
  
Harry takes Louis by the back of the neck, squeezing gently as he slowly feeds him more and more of his length until it hits the back of Louis’s throat. His gag reflex spasms briefly and he splutters, but holds himself on Harry’s cock even as his eyes well up with tears. He pulls himself off and then slides down again, slowly building a rhythm until his throat becomes accustomed to Harry’s full length, and soon enough’s he’s deepthroating him. Harry’s eyes widen, pupils blown and cheeks filling up with blood as he watches his dick disappear behind Louis’s pretty, pink lips. He pokes his finger in the hollow Louis’s cheek makes, watching with amazement as his cock fills the space, poking out of the flesh. He brushes his thumb over Louis’s soft cheek, whispering “you’re doing so good, baby,” when Louis determinedly takes the whole length again, staring up at Harry with wet blue eyes.   
  
Harry musters all of his self-restraint and pulls out, because he wants to wait to come until he’s inside Louis. He tugs him back onto his lap and lets Louis fall bonelessly against his chest, dazedly obeying when Harry gently asks him to “suck,” pressing his fingers against Louis’s mouth. Louis accepts them with a docile sort of grace, sucking on them until they're sufficiently wet. Harry slides them in one by one until he’s three fingers thick and Louis is mewling against his neck.   
  
Louis sinks down onto his cock greedily as soon as Harry removes his fingers, collapsing onto Harry’s chest in a pliant puddle as he fucks into him, fingers burning white fingerprints into Louis’s hips. He fucks him rougher than he probably should, shoving his thighs open at an impossibly wide angle, biting at Louis’s throat as his fingers sink into the flesh at Louis’s hips, then squeezing roughly at his arse, leaving bruises on every inch of skin he touches. His hips slam up into Louis’s, yanking him down roughly on every thrust until every limb in Louis’s body is trembling violently as his prostate is stimulated over and over again.   
  
He begs Harry to come,  _please let me, please, can I come, Harry? please please please_ , but Harry doesn’t want to let him. He wants to keep Louis bouncing on his cock, wants to keep hearing his pretty pleas, wants to keep staring into those wet blue eyes, wants to keep kissing those pink lips, squeezing his perfect arse, scattering bruises over his soft skin, pulling at his feathery hair. He wants to keep Louis for the night and for the week and the month and the year. He wants to see Louis every weekend.  
  
“Come,” Harry growls against Louis’s ear, and then Louis collapses, crumpling like a doll who’s strings have been cut, cock spurting onto Harry’s stomach until he’s spent, lying wrecked across Harry’s lap. Louis tries to close his eyes but Harry holds him by the chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact as Harry finally loses it, coming inside Louis with a low cry, staring at Louis while he falls apart.  
  
Louis kisses his mouth and his hands and his wrists and his stomach, pressing his cheek to Harry’s chest and breathing in his smell and Harry can’t tell if his tears are old or new but he can feel them, streaking down his chest in little shivering streams. He pets Louis’s hair until he falls asleep, then picks him up like a child and puts him to bed. Harry crawls in after him, staring around Louis’s flat while he tries to fall asleep.  
  
He looks at his movie collection ( _Grease, Hairspray, West Side Story)_ , his books ( _Harry Potter_ , an Oscar Wilde collection,  _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Bell Jar_ ). He looks at his trash (crumpled receipts, empty wine bottles, dirty clothes, ripped envelopes). He realizes how little he really knows about Louis, and yet--  
  
He’s never felt like less of a stranger.  
  
\--  
  
Harry wakes up to an empty bed.  
  
All of Louis’s bags are gone -- his suitcases, his portfolio, his laptop bag, Louis himself -- gone. There’s a cold cup of tea on the nightstand with a little note that Harry takes numbly, reading,  
  
 _Harry, if you see this -- your lovely and though I know its unlikely, heres the address of where I’m staying. Maybe we could write to each other? If you don’t want to, I understand. Please leave the key under the mat outside. My mates are renting out the place while I’m gone. Yours sincerly, Louis._  
  
 _p.s. i hope the tea isn’t too cold by the time you wake up, and i hope my handwriting isnt too messy_  
  
For some reason, it’s the little errors that make Harry sober up more than anything else: the cold cup of tea and the spelling mistakes and the barely legible penmanship and the stupid little smiley face Louis scribbled under the "p.s". Harry throws on his clothes and races out the door, shoving the key under the mat hurriedly like Louis asked. He glances at his watch. It’s 8 o’clock.   
  
He catches the nearest train to the airport, re-reading and crumpling and smoothing and re-reading the note, crinkled in his fist, his knee bouncing anxiously as the train gets nearer and nearer to the airport. He runs inside the moment they stop, rudely jumping in front of an old woman but he just can’t find it within himself to feel guilty as he darts around people, dodging luggage and small children and lost people, looking for their terminals. He searches the board furiously -- looking for a flight to New York that leaves at 9 o’clock.   
  
Louis spots him before he sees Louis. He doesn’t barrel into him, or smother him in a bear hug, or kiss him senseless, or anything so dramatic, just nudges him quietly with his elbow and says, “You came.”  
  
Harry wraps him in his arms, hearing Louis’s suitcase fall to the ground as Louis swings his arms tightly around his neck, burying his face in Harry’s neck. Harry’s arms sweep around his waist, squeezing him as tightly as he dares and then some, breathing in his smell and kissing his hair and becoming emotional, just two little tears sneaking out because he didn’t expect any of this -- to meet this boy who’s perfect and beautiful, who fits into his arms perfectly, who makes him feel alive and awake and hot all over. Who he can imagine spending every weekend with.   
  
Louis’s hands come to the side of his face, and they’re kissing, hard and desperate and wet and someone whistles in the distance, because they’re in the middle of a goddamn airport for christ’s sake. Louis laughs miserably against the corner of his mouth, breath hitching, burying his face in Harry’s neck again until he calms himself down.  
  
“I made you something,” he whispers. “Just in case you came. Here --” He tries to break away to give it to him but Harry pulls him back to kiss him again, thumbs stroking roughly over his cheeks. Louis exhales shakily against Harry’s mouth, and they press their foreheads together.  
  
His hand dives into the pocket of his jacket, and he pulls out a fat envelope. “Here.” Harry takes it, hand lingering over Louis’s. “Harry, I’m going to be late -- I can’t--”  
  
Harry kisses his cheek, tugs the collar of Louis’s jumper over his shoulder, fixes his jacket and ruffles his hair. “Okay.”  
  
“I’m going to write to you.”  
  
“Okay.” Harry smiles.   
  
“You don’t believe me.”  
  
“Louis, I’ll believe whatever you tell me,” Harry says honestly, and he looks so open and vulnerable that Louis has to look away.   
  
“Okay. Good. I’m going to go now.” Louis picks up his bag and he avoids eye contact because his eyes are burning again.  
  
Harry takes a step forward, physically restraining himself not to follow him. “Bye Louis!” He shouts, louder than he meant to. Louis’s head drops and he waves over his shoulder, not looking.  
  
\--  
  
It takes Harry hours to get home. He knows he’s stalling but he can’t help it -- he takes the most inconvenient train, goes to lunch by himself in a crowded restaurant where he knows the wait will be long, stops by his friend’s house for a bit for an afternoon drink to fog up his head.   
  
It’s 10 o’clock when he finally makes it home, and he remembers in a painful, powerful wave why he was so reluctant to go back. His flat is just as Louis left it -- the sheets are crumpled and smeared with come, the bed covers are abandoned on the floor, there’s half-eaten french toast sitting on the counter, two half-finished tea cups, a used condom, a packed bowl. He collapses onto to his kitchen counter and stares out his window, feeling something hard and uncomfortable in his pocket.   
  
He digs it out -- it’s the envelope. Harry tears it open and a little recorder falls out. Harry swallows the lump in his throat, running a shaky hand over his mouth before finally giving in. He presses play.  
  
 _“What did I think when?”_  It’s his own voice -- his voice is slow and deep and god, has he always sounded like this?  
  
 _“When you saw me in the club.”_  Louis’s voice -- Harry has to stop, breathe, his heart pounding against his rib cage. He eyes the bowl on the kitchen counter, or the bottle of Captain Morgan in his cabinet and thinks about clearing his mind, but even those memories are infected with Louis now.   
  
 _“I thought...I dunno, you were sort of out of my league.”_  Harry fast-forwards the tape, catching little pieces.  _“You were a horrible dancer...you made me chase you...I just wanted to kiss you...and now we’re here, aren’t we?”_    
  
Harry looks at the same spot where Louis once stood until the sun comes up, playing the loop of _I didn’t realize we were still recording_  over and over as the sun splashes his apartment with color, and his ass becomes numb watching the same spot on the asphalt below his window, imagining every scenario where Louis materializes there again.  
  
 _And now we’re here aren’t we?_


End file.
